Life
by GhostRelic
Summary: The continuing story of Sansa Stark and Tywin Lannister running into, and overcoming, the obstacles of marriage. :::: Pride & Pack: Part III :::: [COMPLETE]
1. Eat

It was early evening when she met Lord Tywin for supper.

In the fortnight they had been married, her husband made a habit of sharing their final meal. They were apart for most of the day; Lord Tywin leaving her before she woke to tend to his duty as the Hand of the King, and Sansa being expected to accompany the Queen Regent and/or Lady Margaery in their daily routines.

For her part, Sansa was becoming a little more accustomed to being treated with the respect, and perhaps mild fear, the wife of Tywin Lannister commanded. However she still felt pangs of apprehension in walking around the castle, even with a dedicated guard, and hadn't yet gone to court; those wounds were still too fresh, and her husband didn't press her to be there.

The dining chamber in the apartments of the Hand was spacious. Built for entertaining and accommodating groups of dignitaries, and council members. However, with only two people sitting at one end, the opulently large table looked like an expanse of northern tundra - and their usual lack of conversation made the table, and room overall, feel just as cold.

This evening she arrived promptly and was surprised that the servants usually standing by, ready serve and clear the food were nowhere to be seen. Instead, Maester Pycelle was standing next to Lord Tywin; speaking to him in a hushed tone.

When they noticed her making her way to her place at the table, the men bowed and greeted her in turn.

Tywin held her chair out for her as she sat.

As a little girl, Sansa had pictured that same gesture from her husband as being somehow more maudlin, and a little less regimented.

She was well beyond the expectation that life was a song, but sometimes happier memories trickled into her actuality, and it was worth the distraction to find a compromise in the two. The fact that he did it at all was enough to make her smile inside, regardless.

She had almost told him, on more than one occasion, that the courtesy was unnecessary when it was between the two of them. But she couldn't fathom giving Tywin Lannister anything remotely resembling an order. Instead, meal after meal, she extended her own sincere courtesy and hoped it would appease.

Sansa had become fairly comfortable in the silence between herself and her husband, but tonight it was hard not to notice that both men kept looking at her, almost expectantly, and she was beginning to feel uneasy.

Just as it was becoming unnerving, the maester spoke.

"Lady Sansa, you are..." He was all of a sudden at a loss for words, or, more likely, was trying find the right ones in front of Lord Tywin, "...coming upon your cycle..."

He inflected it halfway to a question, but Sansa was so completely mortified by the statement in general she wouldn't have obliged the man an answer, strictly out of principle.

She blushed hot, fast, and crimson.

Her husband spoke next, thankfully not to her and thankfully not about her cycles.

"Bring the treatment here you fool, then leave." He flicked his hand at the old maester, accentuating his annoyance.

Maester Pycelle did as he was bid and retrieved a pewter cup from behind him, set it on the table in front of where Lord Tywin was standing, bowed to them both, and took his leave.

She watched Tywins' jaw flex and twitch in his irritation, at the same time he grasped the cup by its' upper rim and set it in front of her.

She could see the steam rising from the contents and was completely engaged in the movement of Tywins fingers; how they lingered on the rim, how he tapped his forefinger lightly on it before removing his hand altogether.

There she sat, a hot cup of mystery in front of her and her husband hovering beside her - this, she confirmed to herself, was _definitely_ unnerving.

"My lord?"

"It will ensure your moonblood my lady." If Lord Tywin was uncomfortable discussing feminine workings, it was not outwardly evident.

She was no longer as embarrassed, but more so confused. And while she didn't look at him directly, Tywin seemed to anticipate her hesitation.

"You will not yet carry children Sansa. The tea will make sure of that." He nodded to the cup, even though she wasn't looking at him to see it.

It took a moment for his words to register, at which point Sansa truly felt hurt. She knew that what they did on their wedding night was what was needed to make a child, but it had only been the once; they shared a bed, but Tywin had never taken his rights again.

More than that though, _more than that_, he now wanted to kill any life that might have been created.

Her brow was pinched and gathered in her ever growing frustration and, dare it be said, anger.

"No."

She spoke in the direction of, and more to, the tea; but she was certain her husband would know the retort was for him.

"You will drink it Sansa." His voice was very much on the verge of anger.

She slowly turned her head and met his livid glare. She bore his intimidation, she would bare whatever punishment Lord Tywin felt compelled to bring upon his disobedient wife; she was used to pain and, short of killing her outright, she would suffer for even the possibility of a child, of being a mother.

She didn't endure _this_ long for her husband to torture her anew, in such a vicious, deceitful manner.

Her angry furrowed look softened to one she slipped into without even the slightest thought or hesitation; her courteous, wooden armour. And for the briefest moments the old lions' face showed the smugness of success.

"No Tywin, I will not."

It was the first time she had ever addressed him by name alone; and she used it as she'd seen him do, a handful of times before - to ensure the attention of the individual and emphasize a point.

She watched long enough to see his satisfaction crumble, then turned her focus back to a point on the table. She was sure she looked like a petulant child, but she was also sure she couldn't care less.

Sansa waited excruciating minutes. Waited for the infamous wrath of her husband to rain on her, either physically or otherwise.

Nothing happened.

After what felt like hours, she heard Lord Tywin inhale slow and long, and exhale the same way.

He knelt next to her, where she was sitting, and in one heavy jerk on its' solid leg, he twisted the chair, and its' occupant, to face him.

In this position, Sansa was taller than Tywin, she was looking down at him - but she supposed that was the effect he wanted to convey. He did nothing without considering every angle, she knew this. She had seen him talking to, and advising, his commanders and other council members when they'd meet in her presence. Him dropping to a lower level in order to speak to his wife was equally calculated.

His face was still deeply scowled and angry looking, but his voice was a total contrast in that it was gentle.

"You are young my lady, too young to safely carry a child." He kept her eye, "You _will_ have my children. Soon, just not immediately."

She blushed at his words, not that they were romantic or even particularly amiable - but they were in reference to the act itself, and _that _made her feel things she had yet to find a name for.

His features, then, completely softened and she watched a dark shadow pass over him, something made of grief. She knew the look of that emotion well, and to see it on Lord Tywin was a shock to the senses.

Sansa don't know what to say. She had never considered her age in comparison to her ability to have children. It was always assumed that that would just _happen_ after she was married. This was what she was supposed to do, this was what she was married for.

"My lord-" She started softly, but was cut off and brought back to reality in a startling manner.

Lord Tywins' voice again belied his features, this time it was sharp and cruel coming from a face of serenity.

"You are of no use to me _dead._"

At that, Tywin rose to his feet and turned both the chair and Sansa back to facing the tea again.

He didn't loom over her, he simply took his seat at the head of the table and began reading his perpetual communications.

Sansa looked at the beautiful, intricate engravings on the cup as she considered it; considered Tywins' words. Callous or not, they were the truth. She would be of no use dead - to anyone. If she died in childbed, what would happen to the child if it survived; she thought about Tyrion and the cold indifference his father showed him. It could only be assumed her child would be treated the same, perhaps worse because her husband didn't love _her _to begin with.

She watched her fingers wrap themselves around the cup and pull it towards her.

The taste was bitter, and became more so, as well as earthy, the more she consumed.

"I had not meant this to be a spectacle my lady."

His face returned to serious, and his voice was so equally. But when Sansa looked at him, at how he was looking up with only his eyes, she knew this was something like an apology.

"If it is required again, you may accommodate it privately."

Again, even a roundabout reference to being bedded caused her to blush. She inwardly chided herself for being so inappropriate, as she outwardly nodded at her husband.

"Thank you my lord." It was demure, and she meant it.

She recognized why this was necessary right now and wondered if brides were normally given this type of consideration, or if it was more to do with her _usefulness_. The more she thought about it, the more she casually acknowledged that her cage had transformed from a room to a marriage.

By the time she finished the tea, her face relayed just how awful the taste had become.

She could hear, in the direction of Lord Tywin, something scraping along the table. When she looked, she saw his own cup of wine being pushed to her to wash away the bitterness.

But when she peered at him directly to thank him, she was quietly taken aback. Tywins' face looked like she felt; overly scowled, like he was tasting the bitter drink too. Sansa found it both odd, and strangely endearing.

While Sansa drank his offered wine, Lord Tywin summoned for the meal to begin.

It was when she thanked him again, at the same time sliding his cup back to its' original position, that her husband reached for it absently and settled his fingers over hers.

There was nothing lewd in the position, but small intimacies were still so new they tended to catch them both off guard.

They each looked at their connection, not one another, and watched as Tywin brushed his forefinger in the tiniest of caresses over hers.

The moment was brief and ended when their meal was ushered in; Sansa quickly removed her hand, as though she'd been _caught_.

Lord Tywin simply pulled the vessel the rest of the distance to a convenient spot in front of him and continued in his work; servants placing food around it.

They proceeded to eat in silence.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

As a course of food was cleared away, Tywin called for his wine to be refilled and focused on a particularly long and detailed letter in his hand.

When he spoke, it was more to himself.

"When Ned Stark ruled the North, there was never a need for a King..." He trailed off, his agitated thought concluding in his mind.

Sansa was always peaceful in the silence that surrounded them during their meals; when he made them, she answered her husbands' simple inquiries politely and directly, then retreated back to her own thoughts.

However, when Lord Tywin mentioned her father in his unfiltered voice she visibly bristled; then her memory drifted to another man who instilled her with his wisdom.

She had meant for the thought to remain secured but, as seemed to happen in the presence of her husband, it found foothold in a whisper.

"Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world."

Tywin looked at her then.

At first she thought he would perhaps praise her for her, _the Hounds'_, insight. But that hope quickly faded as his look turned to one of disappointment.

"I certainly hope your father wasn't the one to recite such nonsense."

"No my lord, not my father," she was still speaking in a whisper.

"Then I assume that it was one of your northern barbarians you heard speak those words."

She could only nod.

"Do you understand the flaw in that statement my lady?" His eyes narrowed at her.

What would he care if she knew flaws in matters left to men? She knew her place, _bleed and breed_, and even _that_ had been reduced by half.

But as she considered his inquiry, she began to see the words as pictures in her mind. It was like one of the wooden puzzles from her childhood, the pieces started to fit together.

"Strong arms and sharp steel don't _rule_, they are used to fight for the people that do."

Sansa blinked her eyes up to her husbands to see that the rigidity of frustration had been smoothed over.

He nodded slow and curt, "That is correct. Steel and strength are tools one uses to obtain and maintain a goal. But it's only a minor step in the dance of ruling; either a household or a realm. The real power is found in the men who control those who wield the steel, and _their_ strength is always found above the neck."

She understood then, Sandor would see that as truth because that was his existence. He was a soldier, a shield, a follower; a follower gifted in violence, for sure, but never a leader, never a lord or ruler of subjects.

Additionally, in that moment, Sansa also understood that Lord Tywin was not about to coddle his wife. She would learn to his specifications, as daunting as they may be.

She suddenly felt overwhelmed. It was a lot to take in, to absorb and catalogue. But it was also thrilling; she knew she would never be afforded this opportunity if she were married to any other man.

Tywin was looking at her as though it was the first time he'd ever seen her, "You have your mothers beauty, and your fathers naïvety."

Whatever contentment she felt prior was crushed with his words, "My father was not naive my lord. My father was an honourable man."

There was a twitch in the lions' eyebrow.

"And you have soundly proven my point, my lady," he said with disinterest. "Your father was not honourable, he was exceedingly _dutiful_, there is a difference," and absently added, "It also seems to be the curse of middle sons."

At that, Lord Tywin set about his meal and document reading once more.

Sansa sat there, her eyes fixed on the cutlery in her hands, she couldn't think of anything to rebuff him. She _was _naive, and the realization made her feel so weak.

She spoke as she raised her eyes to look at him, "Is honour such a terrible thing my lord?"

Lord Tywin paused his reading and finishing chewing and swallowing before he even looked at her. When he did, his features weren't as disdainful as before, more thoughtful.

He tilted his head slightly to the side, narrowed his eyes a tiny amount, and swallowed to clean his palate before speaking.

"No. Honour is not such a terrible thing, but neither is it realistic." He watched her to see if she was asking out of interest or pointless courtesy, and was rather pleased to see her lean toward him - indicating the former.

"Songs and stories bleat about honour because, like everything else in songs and stories, it is a concept that is fantastic." He leaned back, and kept talking, "If tales of fancy carried every variable of man's tendencies, they would be painfully long and children would never know who was good and who was evil."

He could see her considering his words, it was encouraging; this girl was nowhere near the dullard his daughter had painted.

After a time, Sansa narrowed her own eyes and offered, "My fathers' bannerman often referred to him as honourable."

Tywin quite literally had to bite his tongue in order to stop himself from immediately retorting a sardonic observation regarding northern bannermen in general.

"And _I_ referred to him as dutiful." He picked up his wine at that and swirled the contents, "My lady, tell me, specifically, what made your father an honourable man?"

She thought carefully for a moment, "His integrity."

"_Specific_." Tywin leaned forward and almost barked the word at her.

She clenched her jaw at his sudden change in mood, "T-toward his family."

There was a pause in which Tywin gave her a look that clearly stated she was foolish.

"Was it his honour or duty that prompted him to bring home a bastard, that he sired with another woman, for your mother to raise?"

Sansa looked down again, her brow furrowed, she knew the answer, there was no honour in that, "Duty."

When she lifted her eyes again, Tywin was still looking at her as he took a drink of his wine.

She wasn't ready to give up so easily.

She started going over instances of proof in her head; but every time she thought the part of her husband, her proof of honour dissolved into duty - from joining the rebellion to avenge his family and support his friend, to marrying his brother's betrothed and becoming the Warden In The North - it was all duty, because that was what he _had_ to do at the time. It was what was expected of him.

Her husband spoke before she could form another example.

"I have no doubt that your father performed deeds that some would consider honourable, Sansa." She looked at him directly and remained silent, "But the very definition of honour is living by an established set of moral principles; you can't simply rearrange, or change altogether, those principles on a whim." Lord Tywin then looked away from her, down into the unfathomable darkness of the liquid in his cup, "Being truly honourable is an impossible undertaking for any man tasked with the responsibility of leadership. You would be a failure before you could even try."

He kept staring into his wine, thinking, brooding.

"But surely there is honour in ones duty my lord." She couldn't allow her father to be reduced to a naive, dutiful man. He _was_ honourable, if only because he was her hero and that was the way she always saw him.

His gaze was focused on his wife again, and so very intense, "Tell me Lady Sansa, do you believe _your_ Lord Husband to be an honourable man?"

All she could concentrate on was returning his stare without flinching, but when he raised an eyebrow in expectation, she spoke softly - and truthfully.

"No, my lord. I don't."

He sat back again, face ever-somber, eyes still keen, even though they were now looking through half lids.

"Good." He said it in a voice that sounded annoyed as much as it sounded relieved.

Sansa was fully aware, then, that the truth, while infinitely preferable, would always be a double-edged sword.


	2. Play

**Note: Please be aware of the rating change from T to M**

* * *

Sansa was quickly striding through the sitting room her chambers, on an errand for Lady Margaery, retrieving a scarf the future queen liked the colour of, and was almost to the bedchamber when she heard her husband greet her.

She didn't see him behind the desk he spent most of his evenings sitting at. It was barely midday, and quite frankly she couldn't remember ever seeing him at this hour of the day before, so to hear his voice was rather jarring.

She had stopped in her tracks, startled, before turning to curtsy and greet him in return.

"My lord." She knew not to say or ask anything frivolous.

He hadn't looked up at her, his peripheral sufficient to know she was moving to a spot beside him.

In the first days of her marriage Sansa learned quickly that Lord Tywin didn't like to converse at a distance, at least not with her. He would ask her to come closer then place her where he would like her to stand before he'd start talking, now she simply knew to approach his side or take a seat near him. Initially she felt like she was being trained, but soon realized the benefit and practicality of being nearer; especially when their conversations progressed beyond shy start and stops, on her part, to broader discussions and his encouraging her to ask questions.

He was sifting through the many parchments and ravens he had at any one time on his desk when he spoke casually, "Have you written your mother?"

Sansa considered whether it was an accusation or a question. Either way, the answer was the same.

"No my lord, I-," her knee-jerk courtesies interrupted on their own, "My family are traitors to the true King Joffrey."

He looked at her then; sat up straighter in his chair, his face etched in annoyance, and raised an eyebrow.

With no words and only a slight gesture she knew he was telling her to drop whatever pretense she felt she needed, he'd not oblige it.

"I have not been permitted contact with my family, my lord." She was looking at his chest now, blushing, unable to retain his stare. She had been sequestered since her father was executed, but didn't want to bring about _that_ part of the truth.

He took a moment before he answered, "Would you disclose military agendas to the enemy?"

It was her turn to look at him. Although his face and voice didn't change, she could tell in his eyes that this was his way of lightening the mood.

She smiled softly, "No my lord."

"Be warned, your letter _will_ be reviewed, however I'll not have you estranged from your mother entirely."

Catelyn Stark had surely heard of her daughters' marriage by now; and offering correspondence was a pittance when compared to the potential value it held.

Their families were now tied, any decision made to carry violence toward the Lannisters would be akin to warring with Sansa directly. Alternately, if Tywin could impart any suggestion to what was written, he may be able to control the relay of influence of Robb Stark. The latter was the further fetch, and the former might hold absolutely no water with the northmen as well; but, in light of everything that could potentially unfold in the near future, the mere chance of either was well worth the cost.

Sansa was flooded with feelings of elation, confusion, and sadness; it was truly the first kindness she had been shown in a longer time than she cared to dwell on.

_A letter._

The prospect of writing words to her mother was teetering her on the verge of tears, but she fought it, knowing her husband had no patience for them.

It was a terrible realization that such a tiny act felt like the entire world was shifting.

Gratitude of his favour, regardless of magnitude, could not be set aside. So she offered a genuine smile, a courteous thank-you and, as though possessed by someone else entirely, leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him chastely, yet squarely, on the mouth.

It lasted only a heartbeat, until she abruptly let him go and stepped away as if Lord Tywin was made of fire; she was horrified of her behaviour.

Sansa stood there, frightened; she had touched him without his say-so. The bottom hem of her gown was suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

He rose from his chair after a moment and Sansa prepared herself for the punishment that could only be inevitable.

When she felt his fingers brush lightly down her cheeks and either side of her neck, she couldn't glean what kind of hurt would follow. Joffrey always _told_ her what he was going to do to her.

He knew she was terrified of what her actions had earned her; when he tilted her face up toward him, her eyes were wide and panic stricken. His chest tightened in a brief spasm, as it seemed to do now and then since his marriage, always in context to his wife; which was always followed by a pang of guilt and anger for feeling something toward her in the first place.

Lord Tywin kept stroking her cheeks and jawline, making his face as passive as possible, trying to ease out her tension.

After a few minutes she seemed to calm.

Feeling her relax, he stilled his hands; cupping her face, he moved in closer and copied her previous maneuver.

When his lips touched hers, she could feel their soft texture but also the firmness behind them; it's what made his kiss confident, and caused the pool of heat within her to stir - edging out the nervousness that was chewing at her.

She had been breathing fast and shallow before, now it had evened out and deepened. Her eyes went from shock to sedate, then closed altogether as his mouth moved over hers.

Their kiss began gathering intensity.

Sansa mirrored her husband's movements, but when he flicked his tongue over her lips she was at a loss.

Tywin pulled away slightly and continued gently stroking her cheeks and hair.

He lightly flicked the tip of his tongue over her lips again, then spoke, "When I do that Sansa, you'll open your mouth for me." He looked like he was giving a command to one of his guards, but it was said at a volume that made it more felt than heard - and she _felt_ it travel right to the core of her.

She nodded into his palms and smiled a little when he leaned in to kiss her again. This time, when his tongue touched her lips she granted him access to her mouth.

It's was so foreign, but it was so intimate.

He tasted fresh and she could feel him growl into her mouth when her tongue tentatively started to explore his.

In the back of her mind she registered that this, aside from the brush of lips concluding their wedding ceremony, was their first true kiss. That acknowledgement made her stomach flutter and sent heat cascading down her spine. She slowly wrapped her arms around his neck again, which he reciprocated by moving his own hands down over her breasts and flanks until they rested on her lower back.

He pulled her body tighter into his as he sucked on her tongue.

She could feel the hardness of his manhood press into her belly when she was flush against him, and was left hot and panting when he, again, pulled his mouth away a tiny amount.

"Sansa," was all he could whisper before she closed the gap and kissed him again.

He could feel her hands move down from the back of his neck to the front of his torso, and tighten into fists where the fabric hung loose on his doublet; she was pulling herself up and pulling him down; each an action of getting closer, and his mind and body started to flicker into an all-consuming heat.

They were jolted out of their ministrations by a knock on the door, which instantly flared anger in the lion. Sansa immediately let go and stepped away from him, but before Tywin moved to answer it he took a moment to look at her.

She was happy to see the softness return to his eyes when he regarded her, as well as the heat she had seen on their wedding night. The rest of his face, however, was rigid. But Sansa was getting to know that that was what he looked like normally; and over the course of their weeks together, it became less and less intimidating.

When he excused himself, Sansa continued to the bedchamber in order to retrieve the scarf she had initially ventured in for, doubly allowing Lord Tywin his privacy.

She had finally located the sash when she felt his hand touch her shoulder.

Sansa turned to face him, and was smiling as she did so. He made her feel good and she wanted him to see that in her. She wasn't always so timid and frightened, she was a Stark, of northern blood, and she wanted him to see that too.

His hand came to rest on her cheek, his thumb stroking tender lines where it rested.

There was a heat in his eyes, like before; his features and voice remained stern, "As my wife, you _are_ permitted to kiss me."

The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly as he added, "As propriety dictates."

He lowered his hand when she looked away and contemplated for a moment. Then watched as she slowly, almost cautiously, stepped closer to him.

She took his words as an invite.

He meant them as one.

Sansa was already on her toes to reach him when he slowly wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her off them.

This kiss was feverish; deep, and wet, and a little on the rough side.

She had hold of his face this time and it was exactly what she needed to kindle her own heat again.

Her memory would never piece together all the details, but the next thing she'd remember was being on the bed, fully naked and helping Tywin out of his breeches.

She was kissing him everywhere she could reach.

She was hesitant, at first, to lay her mouth anywhere but on his own, she didn't want him to think her a deviant; but he simply nodded at her and made an airy grunting noise when she licked and sucked on his neck - like he had done to hers on their wedding night.

They were all hands and mouths; like the kiss just prior, their physical actions were fervent.

When Tywin slid his fingers down the front of her, from her teats to her heat, his breath caught in his throat. Sansa was so wet and ready for him, he felt a powerful surge of arousal course from the depths of his chest to the tip of his cock.

His need was suddenly an urgent priority, which found him swiftly positioning his wife underneath him and, just as swiftly, thrusting into her; exhaling a noise as he did so, that sounded almost painful.

When he entered her, there was still a twinge of discomfort; this was the first time they'd bedded since their wedding night, but the ache was brief - and altogether forgotten when he kissed her deeply and started to move inside her.

This time there was no pressure, no duty associated with what they were doing, and that was making it exciting for Sansa.

She had longed to feel this,_ him_, again and she couldn't decide if it was because her husband was a man to be feared, and it made it feel dangerous, or if it was because Tywin acted as though he truly desired this from her, _wanted_ her.

The latter was a force, like a physical shove, at the part of her mind and body she truly thought had been beaten away to nothing.

It was something, to be frightened of feeling wanted; but the fact that her husband respected her, in his own way, gave her permission to give in to it - in these intimate moments, at least.

Though Sansa knew what to expect this time, she was still nervous about not knowing what to do.

Her husband didn't seem at all bothered by her inexperience.

Tywin worked over and into her for quite some time, watching the colour build on her chest and neck from porcelain to pink to almost red. She was receptive to kissing and the attentions of his mouth so he licked and kissed and sucked her breasts and neck and mouth; to be duly rewarded with her breathy moans and her body writhing against his.

When her moaning started gaining in length and volume he slowed his thrusts and peered down at his wife.

"Sansa, look at me."

She met his eyes with her face locked in ecstasy, her mouth was slightly parted and her cheeks had that telltale flush - the sight almost undid the lion then and there.

His vocal pitch changed as he spoke through his lust, "I want you to touch yourself the same way _I_ touch you." He flicked a glance between them, to where they were joined.

Sansa knew exactly what he meant. It was a touch she thought about, and dreamt of sometimes. She had never considered doing it herself though, that was new, and thoroughly scandalous.

She blushed even redder, but complied. Her hand leaving the back of his neck and making its way between them to her sensitive bump.

Sansa could feel a wet tangle of hair down there, she could also feel Tywins' manhood brush her fingertips as he steadily pushed it in and pulled it out of her.

It took some fumbling strokes but she eventually found what felt good.

Tywin watched her chase her pleasure; fucking her in a rhythm that didn't leave him wanting. He hooked his hand under her knee and raised her leg to drape over his lower back, then did the same with other.

The change of angle allowed him to sink into her at a greater depth and he couldn't stop the moan that rattled out of him.

"_Gods, girl._"

Soon he saw her head loll back further into the bed, felt her body start to tense, and he began fucking her in earnest; deeper and harder until she shattered completely; her inner walls clenching tight around him.

She was breathing whimpers when he felt her bring her hand from her juncture and wrap it around to his back; digging her fingernails into his flesh. He knew then he'd not escape this encounter unscathed, and it was _that_ very acknowledgement that sent him reeling into his own peak.

The look her husband wore in the moment of his release was completely unguarded; and Sansa knew, in the same moment, that she would yearn to see it again.

Tywin rested over top his wife, his face pressed into the curve at the base of her neck, waiting for his breathing to even out into a normal pattern. His hand had settled at her crown and he was absently stroking his thumb over her hairline.

He forcibly allowed himself this comfort, _her comfort_, in that moment. He could feel her hand, more precisely her fingers, that remained at the back of his neck, softly raking the skin there.

He didn't want to become dependent on _this_, this feeling, this soothing; but he had been fractured for so, _so_ long, that the closeness he felt with Sansa when they were alone was like a salve.

When he brought his face around to look at her more directly she wore the same smile she had greeted him with when he entered their bedchamber. There was nothing false about it, nothing that told him this was an attempt to usurp his authority, nothing that implied she was mindlessly performing a duty for the benefit of her husband.

The more he observed her, the more he attempted to uncover her motives; the more his efforts became fruitless, the more his suspicions were provoked. And _it all_ fueled his ire, because it was bootless folly of his own making and he bloody-well knew it.

He was pulled out of his bitter reverie by her movement; and any thoughts that were even remotely tainted turned to smoke when she craned the small distance and kissed him.

It wasn't a deep kiss, but it lingered for a few heartbeats before she pulled back again.

"You like that, don't you?" His question came out in the tone of an imputation; his wife, however, was becoming more immune to his severe nature - one occurrence at a time.

She kept her smile, blushed, of course, and gave a little nod, "Yes."

Sansa could see the hint of a smile in Tywins' eyes even though his face did not reflect it; so she took it upon herself to smile for the both of them.

He leaned in and kissed her swollen lips, first the top, then the bottom. And when her fingers went from gently teasing the nape of his neck to holding him firmly in place, he smoothly cleaved into her mouth with his tongue.

Her entire body was awash in sensation.

The hair on Tywins' chest and stomach was grazing the length of her; from her collar to her abdomen. The restrained weight of him was just enough to make her work to breathe; it wasn't a struggle, but the deeper the inhale the more she pressed into the man above her. As their kiss intensified she could feel the hand that he rested at the crown of her hair gently fist into it; it was a type of possession that sent waves of tingling heat straight to her center. His cock, that had remained inside her, was becoming hard again; as they made small movements against each other, that part of him was moving as well.

This time their touches were deliberate, their actions were slow; they took their time.

Her songs would tell her she was making love with her husband. Sansas' reality would tell her this was a pleasurable instance in a place that dealt only in misery - with the man who, more than likely, was responsible for it.


	3. Sleep

****Note: **I have bastardized the canon time line. Events that happen in weeks in canon will be months here - it's the only way my brain can make it work.**

* * *

He was in a foul temper.

Sansa knew her husband had been woken, as she had, by insistent knocking at the door of their bedchamber at the deadest hour of the night; and when he went to upbraid the poor guard tasked with rousing the old lion, she could just barely hear Lord Varys in the sitting room.

Tywin left and the door closed after that, cutting off all sound from the other side; he did not return.

It was later that morning when she had seen him again, as she walked the periphery of court.

Joffrey was on a hunt, leaving the realm in the capable hands of his grandfather.

Tywin was sitting on the Iron Throne performing his duty to his king, and she couldn't help but be riveted at the sight.

Sansa recalled that King Robert seemed to slack clumsily about the throne, and Joffrey never seemed quite seated - more perched and uncomfortable. Whereas Tywin looked as though it was made for him; his tall frame and broad shoulders ensured he wasn't hidden amongst the blades. Even his long fingers curled around in just the right spots, deftly avoiding injury.

It was a beautiful orchestration of the most subdued combat.

Her courage had rebuilt sufficiently; allowing her feet to walk there, to court, but it was not yet solidified enough to prompt her into going any further than the outermost walls. She tried to blend as much as her crimson dress with gold trim and Tully looks would allow - which was not much at all - but for the most part, she went unnoticed.

Tywin was focused on the business in front of him and hadn't even glanced to the faces of the crowding courtiers.

She had never seen so many people in the room, even during Joffreys more gruesome displays.

_All of them are shouldering for a glimpse of King Tywin_, she mused to herself. But truly, that's what they were doing.

In the time she observed her husband sitting in judgement, there had been no bloodshed, no malicious behaviour, no sadistic taunts-turned-tortures.

Sansa owned her self-admitted fact that Tywin Lannister was the closest to a real king she had seen sitting on the throne; she only had two others to compare him to, but from the whispers and nattering of those around her, her assessment was not biased.

In considering those same people, Sansa felt the number of them alone beginning to suffocate her; she looked for an opportunity to make her way out of the vast chamber before she'd be forced into courteous conversation with the people who once encouraged her suffering.

The very same people now vied for her ear.

Lady Lannister was indeed a person with whom both men and women of court sought to flatter and earn favour. It was part of the reason she avoided it for the most part, and why, in her opinion, Tywin didn't require it of her.

_Lady Lannister_.

She had accepted who she was, the wife of The Great Lion of the Rock, but her stomach turned every time someone spoke her new name.

She didn't _feel_ like a Lannister; and might be that was the only thing keeping her afloat in the torrents of guilt that threatened to drown her, for conforming to their marriage in the capacity she had.

Regardless of her station, her name, or her husband, it didn't stop gossip. It didn't stop the side-eyed glares of ladies who felt they, themselves, were of better, less traitorous, stock to marry Lord Tywin. And how his young bride surely spread her thighs for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

She wore only the barest of jewelry, and it was silver; much to the displeasure of Lord Tywin. But she had explained it away as a connection with the north, not with House Stark, or her father, or anything considered an act of treason. If her husband had an inkling regarding the truth beneath the reason, which she was positive he did, he kept it to himself.

However, she also knew it was only a temporary stay, that she would have to allow him to drape her in gold at some point; but for right now, even the tiniest victory was still a victory.

The only reprieve from the blather was that, now, the ladies of court didn't dare slander her to her face; she didn't have to hear their hate outright, and it was a small mercy.

During a pause in summons and protestations of court, she turned to leave; as she did so, she was caught in the wave of bodies also exiting. Sansa managed to stay ahead of the crowd, and tactfully ignore the various calls of her name coming from behind her.

As she rounded the corner, however, her wrist was caught in a tight grip.

Sansa immediately turned, heart in her throat, expecting to see Ser Meryn or Ser Boros - she knew they were dead, but _that _fear had been second nature for so long her mind sometimes fought itself to settle on actualities.

This time though, when she saw who'd halted her, she smiled.

"Where is your guard?"

Her husbands' mood was still low-slung; and her smile, and whatever feelings of contentment she wore, bled out as she watched his expression cross into fury.

"I- He is-"

"_Stop muttering_," he seethed, "_Are you touched?!_"

Tywin had leaned in close and squeezed the small wrist in his hand even harder.

His words cut, his grasp pinched, and she, at once, slipped into her armour in order to stem the hurt.

"I bid him wait at the east door, my lord. I have exited the south door," she nodded in the direction she had come; the same direction she could see gathering groups of lords and ladies witnessing their scene unfold; surely bolstering their opinion of her continued ineptitude.

"I was making my way back to him." She looked to her husband, "Please forgive any slight my misdirection may have caused you, my lord."

Her eyes were as dead as her voice; she was living through the shell she had created for Joffrey.

Physical pain was nothing compared to forcing herself into the pseudo-self she'd outgrown. And that was the larger grief; she was no longer _that_ girl, that frightened little bird. Tywin gifted her a semblance of confidence; and now, in five words and a firm hold, with an audience of people who wanted nothing more than to see her fail, he was all but reneging it.

She once more felt publicly stripped bare. _Humiliated_.

The too-small armour was starting to make her claustrophobic - her stomach began to turn.

She certainly didn't know what _she_ looked like; but watching Tywin, from the spot outside of herself, she could see his anger unravel. His shoulders lost most of their tense hunch, his breathing deepened, the muscles that were drawn tight in his jaw relaxed, his eyes drained of their piercing rage, and, most of all, his clench released from around the delicate bones of her wrist.

His hand remained there, his fingertips sweeping lightly over where they had just inflicted hurt.

"You..." He started in his stern voice, then faded as though distracted.

His other hand was suddenly on the upper part of her other arm; not grabbing, but resting, his thumb drawing the tiniest of circles there - if she hadn't have felt it, she wouldn't have been sure he was doing anything at all.

The tightness in her chest and the roiling in her stomach were abating. She began to feel herself again; she realized that that was what Tywin was doing - he was trying to pull her back from where he had chased and lost her.

He had seen more than his share of men and women and children die at his feet, or pitch the throes of death in his line of sight; but _this _was terrible.

The needless disintegration of something beautiful.

Tywin knew, before she had become his wife, Sansa had to turn herself into something she was not, in order to survive; the physical scars she bore, and the fact that she survived at all, were proof of that.

What was easier to forget were the scars that he couldn't see; the ones that caused his wife to shudder if the sound of a crowd rose too loud, or pale and lose focus on a conversation if men wearing their white cloaks ventured too close.

She had finally answered him truthfully, and in detail, when he asked about her time as a ward. It took several moon turns, and a certain level of trust to be earned by him in order to eventually hear it be told; and once it was, there was a part of him that wished he hadn't heard it at all.

It wasn't the thought of torturing a woman, _a girl_, he amended, that bothered him - that was nothing he hadn't condoned, or performed himself. Rather, it was the utter lack of necessity and greater purpose that disturbed him.

Tywin knew the value of Sansa Stark before he'd met the girl; and realizing the excruciating ignorance of his daughter and grandson in that regard was bitter medicine to swallow. But what made him truly choke and hate was the fact that it had been Tyrion who acted most befitting House Lannister, by adhering to common sense.

As he watched his wife turn into a husk in front of his very eyes, when his rationale won out against his want to throw fury at the closest and most accessible, he understood he was just another green-eyed monster looking to publicly wallow in her misery.

His wife was inadvertently forcing him to teach himself new lessons - and it was infuriatingly satisfying.

"Sansa." He willed his voice to soften.

She was looking at him now, the life restoring in her eyes; fear still edged them.

"I'm sorry-" she started, before Tywin gently, yet firmly, interjected.

"No. Stop." His mind had taken him to the reason he was in a horrid mood to begin with, "You hold no fault."

Her face scrunched up a tiny amount, and he knew she wanted to inquire about his obvious burden; he wasn't about to tell her, least of all standing _there_.

There, where he could practically feel the shallow murmurs of the shallow people that surrounded them.

In one fluid movement, he raised his hand from her upper arm to the side of her neck - settling his thumb on her jawline; pulled her closer by the wrist in his other hand - close enough for the action to be read plainly by those staring at them, but not so close as to be indecent; and kissed the top of her head.

It was a message; and for a heartbeat Tywin wasn't sure if it was for him, as much as it was for the people around them.

He took only the briefest of moments to enjoy the scent of her hair and the feel of her warm breath through the collared neck of his doublet before stepping back to a distance of arms-length.

"I will escort you, my lady."

The instruction was curt, but Sansa did not miss her cue; taking the arm he offered and walking with him - equal in their commanding elegance.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sansa had waited only a short time beyond the hour in which she and her husband normally accompanied each other for supper, when Lord Tywins' steward came to relay the message that he would be dining in council chambers.

His steward, Lyol, was slightly older than Tywin and had been in service of the Lannisters since he was a boy of no older than eight. Starting in the stables, he soon moved into the keep as a page for Lord Tytos, and was ultimately retained by Tywin - who rewarded his loyalty and service by advancing him to his steward, which Lyol had been for more than three decades.

He always greeted her with a kind smile and equally kind words; even in the beginning, Lyol would go out of his way to ensure Sansa was aware of her husbands schedule and routine. He was a good man; not just a person who served well, but someone akin to those she had loved, and lost, in Winterfell.

So when Lyol told her, after she had been married to his liege for barely a moon, that he thought Lord Tywin wed better than he'd ever realize - she took it as far more than a servant looking to garner the good graces of their Lady.

But as he stood before her, she could see that the steward was troubled. His face was ever-kind, but his posture spoke of uncertainty.

"Is he... well?" She knew Lyol would never volunteer information, but he would not lie to her either.

"My lords' health is sound, my lady."

Sansa looked at him thoughtfully, he didn't move from where he was standing - she was confident that he was silently willing her to continue her questions.

"Has there been another battle?"

"There are always battles in war my lady."

Deduction of what was important to Tywin Lannister lead to her next question.

"Something has happened... family?"

She was unsure if she phrased the question too openly, but when Lyol kept his steely gaze on hers and nodded slow and deep, the answer was both clear and completely muddy.

Then, just like the man he served, Lyol wore an expression that told her the conversation was over - the only exception was that _this_ man made it appear friendly.

She smiled small and genuine, thanked him for the message before dismissing him, and proceeded to summon her meal.

As she ate, Sansa came to understand that although most of her suppers were spent in silence, she had never felt quite as alone as she did during that one.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

She didn't know what time her husband came to bed, but when he stirred her as he slipped under the layers of covers she noticed that there was barely a glow coming from the hearth on his side of the bed.

She watched him settle into a prone position and listened to him exhale deeply.

It was then that she smelled the heavy odor of wine.

She would never question him in his drinking, he'd never imbibed greatly in the past, and she could only assume it was directly related to his mood throughout the day.

Something in relation to family, something that she knew he would never willingly disclose; but it was her duty as his wife to ease his burden. Sansa felt they were on a more comfortable level when they were alone like this; that in private she was more than a political convenience to her husband, and perhaps he would be more receptive to her inquiry now than any other time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Tywin snoring - loudly.

The thought of waking him in order to talk crossed her mind, then kept going.

She found her sleep again, eventually. There were some tense moments when Tywin sounded like he was choking, but he seemed to right himself and fall back into a regular, albeit loud, breathing pattern.

But, later, what woke her violently wasn't Tywins' snoring, it was him sitting bolt upright then scrambling to get out of bed - as though the linens were made of molten metal.

At the same time he was escaping the clutches of the bed, he was speaking clearly to no one in particular; _what_ he was saying, however, was as baffling as his behaviour.

"_Let me see it... You're alright boy..._" He was off the bed completely and had walked over to the fireplace, and was leaning toward the embers.

Sansa had propped herself on her knees, had yet to say a word to him, quietly observing. She could see that he had placed his hands dreadfully close to the twinkling coals and was turning his hands over, from top to palm.

For a horrific heartbeat she thought of the Hound, thought of the actions he had suffered; but when Tywin kept talking she realized he was searching his hands for something, not intending to harm himself.

The light from the hearth was apparently insufficient, for after a minute he walked to the window that was bright in the light of the full moon.

"_No... Two... You're wrong!... Two!_"

Tywin was yelling at the palms of his hands; he had raised them to catch the white illumination piercing through the uneven density of the glass, subsequently bringing them before his face.

She tentatively rose and moved off the bed herself; she didn't take her eyes off him, waiting for him to address her; harshly or calmly, she wasn't sure what to expect.

But when she had padded barefoot to a position almost beside him, without so much as an acknowledgement on his part, she knew something was amiss.

When she moved to stand directly in front of him, he was still talking to his hands - almost pleading with them.

And when she raised her own hand and touched her fingertips to his his wrist, he snapped his attention at her - grabbing at her fingers, pulling her own palms roughly into the light.

"_No no no no no... Gods no..._" The words whined out of him like he was a wounded animal, at the same time he turned her hands over and over in the glow, "_Please no... Not her... Please please please..._"

Sansa felt a flood of fear, the likes of which she hadn't experienced since well before her wedding.

"Tywin..." She swallowed as much of her apprehension as she could; speaking as softly as her body would permit.

"_No... Please..._" The words were keening out of him, his face was mix of anger, confusion, and something that made her go cold at the core - worry.

"Tywin." She tried again, she was at a loss as to what was required for comforting a man; least of all _this_ man. The only reference she had was soothing Bran when he had been frightened of a thunderstorm as a toddling babe.

"Tywin, you're alright. Nothing will hurt you."

She had a sudden pang of awkward embarrassment; reassuring Tywin Lannister of his safety sounded far more bizarre put to voice than it did in ones mind.

He stopped shifting and whining, and simply stared at her; her hands in his, his face creased in concern.

At that angle, in the filtered light, his green eyes flickered like those of a cat. The effect was uncanny and mesmerizing all at the same time.

He took a deep breath and started blinking - like one would do if they were waking - heavy, deliberate blinking.

She watched as his face reassembled itself into an expression of seriousness - no trace of any other emotion remaining. His eyes hardened and he straightened himself to his full height before, first looking at her hands in his, he flicked them away as though they were filth.

Sansa didn't say a word; just stood, frozen.

They stayed like that for a handful of minutes, simply looking at each other in the moonlight. To a casual observer the scene could have been one of romance, until, of course, it would be determined that the tension between the participants was a palpable entity.

It was Tywin who spoke first.

"Go back to bed Sansa." He sounded tired and irritated.

She, instead, stepped toward him and reached her fingertips to his wrist again; this time his hand was at his side, not in front of him.

"I will when I know you are alright," her tone soft, taking another step closer, "Tywin."

He had been watching her, like the animal his eyes were reflecting, first scrutinizing the touch of her fingers, then the proximity she felt entitled to.

It was too close, and he was of no mood.

"I am _well_."

He gritted it out at the same time he snatched the forearm extended close to his hand, using the lose grip to leverage and spin her away from him. Tywin then let go of her forearm and placed that same hand on her back; and, using only the strength of his fingers, shoved her the first couple of steps in the direction of their bed.

"_Go_."

She took the initial assisted strides, but didn't go further. Instead she turned again in his direction.

He had faced his attention to the window, looking out into the bright night, with his arms folded across his chest.

Sansa knew he was aware of her presence, she could see the vibrating shadows of his flexing jaw. Whether it was in annoyance or self consciousness, she couldn't discern.

She stepped toward him again; cautious and slow, like one would approach anything that was spooked.

He didn't bother to look at her; she didn't do as she was bid, but he was truly in no form to argue the point - or really care.

Tywin could sense her getting closer though, and it acted as a calming distraction; something harmless to seep away his rebarbative focus.

Sansa stopped a short distance away from her husband, not confident in what to do next. His hand was now tucked up under his other arm, perched on his chest, so she couldn't touch there again without it seeming discorded.

She stared at his side, and how his crimson bedgown was made with such a luxurious weave that it seemed to shimmer in the pale light, as though it was alive.

Without warning, he felt the backs of her fingers brush down the silky fabric, down his side, and end their journey at his hip. Her touch was careful, but firm enough to neither bother nor tickle.

She did it again, raising her hand and running the backs of her knuckles the length of his flank; as though memorizing every thread and crease she encountered, absorbing the heat of his skin underneath - and sharing her own in return.

Sansa rested her hand on his hip and watched the rise and fall of Tywins' chest and arms as he took a deep breath.

She was taken then, in their silence and muted actions, back to the bits and pieces of her childhood that she had tucked away and kept safe for so long. The ones in which she knew, purely out of instinct, that _feeling_ someone being there for you in the blackness, either of night or emotion, made even the simplest touches seem the grandest of gestures.

He didn't have to look at her to know she was moving behind him. His minds' eye could see her perfectly, gliding fluidly, always graceful; much like how water will always find a path, even on the roughest terrain.

She didn't remove her hand from its' place on his hip, just swiveled it as she moved.

When she was facing his back, she took a moment to fortify her nerve before proceeding.

She stepped closer to him and could see the tension rise in the muscles of his back; another step and even his breathing sounded tight. But she would not stop, not now.

She was so close to him, could feel the warmth of him radiating, and it made her next action seem only natural.

Sansa leaned into him, slowly but with a facsimile of confidence, pressing her body into his back, turning her face and resting her cheek on him too. She took one or two breaths before she guided the hand she kept on his hip around to the front of him; she could feel, everywhere her hand passed over, each strand of muscle tissue flexing in protest - as though she were performing some act of bodily harm.

She would not be deterred.

Her other arm made the same journey on the opposite side of him, and came to rest with it's partner - completing the embrace.

The longer they stayed like that the more Tywin couldn't decide if he was finding himself comforted or emasculated, or both, or the former leading to the latter. His frustration was compiling into anger, and had just starting to bubble to the surface when it was stopped abruptly.

She was humming, some tune or melody he couldn't tell, but it was at a low enough sonancy that he felt it more than anything; and if he told himself that _that_ was not comforting he knew he'd make himself a bloody liar.

Tywin closed his eyes, willed the tension in him to subside, and allowed himself to accept whatever affection this girl,_ his wife_, was offering. Allowed himself this succor. Allowed himself this weakness. Because he knew - knew with every fraction of himself that was fighting the gods-damned truth, that he would be _better_ for it.

When he didn't reject her outright, Sansa felt triumphant; but when she thought about it, considering a hug a triumph, it brought the entirety of their relationship into clear, concise focus. Sadly. But that was who they were and that was what they were bound to, and like her jewelry, she would take even the smallest gain where she could.

She was surprised out of her thoughts when she felt him shift a tiny amount; then felt his hands covering hers. She thought he was about to pry them off and fling her away like he did before, but he simply held them; so she held his hands back, returning the slight pressure he had applied.

They stood there, like that, loosely holding on to one another, her humming out the unwanted silence, for long minutes, perhaps close to one half of an hour.

"Come back to bed."

Tywin had been so deep in his own thoughts, he had to take a moment in order to comprehend that words were spoken to him.

He scoffed lightly and spoke solemnly, "Commanding me now, are you?"

She couldn't see his face, she didn't know if his eyes were as pointed as his voice was; she chanced a hunch and hoped it wouldn't end with his rage.

Untangling their hands closest to the window, she unfolded herself from his back; and immediately felt the loss of warmth and repose.

Sansa took careful steps, rounding her way to the front of him again.

Her other hand kept its' hold on his; and when she was facing him, she gently tugged and answered his question softly, "Yes."

He looked defeated; tired and utterly incapable of the want or desire to retaliate.

She tugged his hand again and was relieved when it gave; his arm stretched as she lead him back to their bed.

They had come to a slightly stumbling stop at the foot of it when Sansa squeezed his hand once more before letting it go and walking the rest of the way to the side she slept on.

He watched her from where he'd halted and admitted to himself that the sight of her, in her pale yellow nightgown, awash in moonlight, was nothing short of ethereal; and in the same breath, chalked his sentimentality up to the impressive amount of wine he had consumed.

When he joined her, first straightening the covers that were in disarray from his mad scramble out, he climbed back in and settled his head on the pillows.

It wasn't until she spoke that he realized his wife was sitting higher, more upright.

"Will you tell me?"

Her voice was sincere, no trace of callow youth in it. And perhaps that was what made his mind up for him.

He didn't change his position, just talked to her hip - which was in his line of sight - such as it was in the fading moonlight.

"Jaime," he took in a deep breath, he really wasn't prepared for this, "He has been..." another deep breath, "injured."

Tywin didn't have to see his wife to know she was considering his words. She no longer wilted under the slightest pressure to think independently, to offer her own thoughts and opinions outside those rehearsed and ingrained in highborn girls from a young age.

However, she still took longer than he normally had the patience for; tonight was different though, in that his day-long anger had drained even his intolerance.

"Grievously?" She finally settled on.

"Yes, but not in the capacity to kill him, apparently." Tywin almost groaned out his next words, "His sword-hand has been... removed."

Sansa inhaled sharply at his words, even his vague description conjured the most vivid of memories. She knew what the separation of flesh looked like, sounded like, smelled like.

All at once she was terrified. Ser Jaime had been long ago captured and detained by northern forces.

"It wasn't..." It came out almost frantic, until she caught herself and calmed her tone, "My brother didn't do this, did he?"

All she could think was that this might have been some sort of retaliation for her marriage, but then thought against it, knowing her husband would have made sure that she was fully aware of _that_ kind of detail.

She felt him rise at a startling speed. The next thing she knew, he was almost in her face - she could smell the stale wine on his breath.

"No, it wasn't your _precious_ _brother_." He hissed at her.

She held his glare; Sansa was about to question his sudden flare of anger when his face wore a look of pain, like Tywin had been physically struck.

He scoffed then, in her face, before lowering himself to a laying position again. The noise that had coughed out of him was acrid and caustic, and she didn't know if wanted to hear any more.

When he was settled again, he spoke.

"No." His tone was again built of fury, she could feel the immediate area of bed shivering in his rage, "No, it was _my own_ gold that paid to render my only capable child _useless_."

One sentence threw so many implications, Sansa was still digesting them when Tywin continued.

"You're a fool if you don't expect someone in your employ to cross you, but _this_ was unpredictable." He was drained again. His burst of anger leaving him spent.

Of everything he said, Sansa focused on the one thing she thought unfathomable.

"The injury is... significant... But surely Ser Jaime is not _useless_."

"How is it that the best swordsman in The Seven Kingdoms, _The Kinglsayer_, is anything _but_ useless when he lacks that with which to wield a sword?"

It wasn't the words that horrified her, though they were vial enough, it was the casual tone that he dismissed his son. Tywin waved away his flesh and blood as easily as he would clothing he didn't like the colour of.

To her, this was something foreign; so _abhorrently_ foreign. She tried to think of her own father making the same assessment of any one of his sons, even his daughters, but she couldn't. She simply drew a blank at her father reacting in such a brutally callous manner.

"He is still _your son_ Tywin." It was supposed to come out cautiously but there was enough passion behind it, it prompted her husband to raise his head and look at her.

"_My son_ made his choice when he opted for white instead of red and gold."

He sounded almost petulant.

She knew then that this had nothing to do with a wound, and everything to do with a father carrying the grudge of a perceived slight from his son.

She never thought she would be given reason to, but she pitied him.

Tywin was still looking at her as she contemplated; until she looked at him levelly.

"Would you have placed yourself in harms way, in order to spare your son his injury?" It was said in such a confident manner, Sansa momentarily thought it had come from her husbands mouth, not hers.

He just looked her; and when he hadn't answered, she feared the worst.

She pulled her brows together, looking almost offended, "You would-"

He cut her off; but what was more striking was the depth of sincerity in his reply, "No Sansa, I would not have allowed him his injury."

When his wife smiled at him, at his words, he had a queer feeling of accomplishment; and when her features returned to serious, he had an even queerer feeling that she was about to revoke that accomplishment.

"Then why would you _allow_ him to be useless?"

He didn't have an answer for that, and he would have much rather seethed at her presumption and accusation; but he couldn't. She was right. She was right, and she might as well have carved out his eyes for the amount of hurt his pride was suffering.

Tywin rolled over and laid on his back, bringing a hand over his eyes - the wine already taking its toll.

"You have no idea Sansa. No clue what it is to have to rise above the defamation of your name. _This_," he shook his right hand to accentuate what he was referring to, "This is more fodder to overcome."

It was her turn to scoff; and that she did - forcefully.

Tywin removed his hand and turned his head toward his wife.

"My family are traitors, my lord." It wasn't in the normal monotone of her rehearsed frivolity, it was almost haughty, "The ones that still live, and war, are wanted dead."

Her fire began to dim, she sounded worn in her own right, "I have an idea_._"

He wasn't phased by her outburst, but he wasn't boastful either.

"It seems you have been south of The Neck too long my lady." He sounded like this was something she should already know, "You are a Stark, your family have an established lineage of over eight thousand years."

She did know that, though it had been shamed away as of late.

He propped himself up on his elbows, if only to be at the same height.

"Your father died a martyr, your brother was crowned a king _because_ of his death." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, tired yet again, "No my lady, your legacy is more than secure - regardless of opinion, regardless of the outcome of any war."

She didn't know how to respond. She just assumed that the overwhelming opinion was the same one she had been inundated with - that her family were no more than treacherous criminals, that her blood was tainted.

Sansa wondered if Tywin had married her in part for her name, not just whatever claim he could squeeze out of it. If, perhaps, part of his motivation was based solely on the prestige he felt it could lend his own.

_Of course he did. Of course it was._

Lord Lannister would know the calculated value of the name Stark, more than those who bore it.

She looked at him then; his eyes were closed and he was still leaning on his elbows. He looked peaceful; in contrast to the demeanour he cast all day.

Whatever drive she had to, once again, mull the purpose of Lord Tywins' actions toward her, or her family, or the north, or whatever else fell to suspicion, had been thoroughly exhausted for this night. So, instead, she focused her efforts on her initial intent.

He felt the tingling warmth of her fingers on his face. She liked touching him, he knew, though she rarely did it without the context of physical intimacy.

The thought of bedding his wife made him hard.

He never could, nor would, chastise his attraction to Sansa in that way; but his current limitation would be in his ability to follow through.

However, when he felt her fingers trace his jaw, over his neck, across his shoulder, and down his arm, he knew she wasn't inclined to that particular activity either.

Tywin felt her curl her fingers around his upper arm then tug, much like she did with his hand earlier; and he could only determine that she wanted him to follow her momentum.

He acquiesced lazily, barely opening his eyes, he rolled over to his side and further followed her guiding hand.

She placed it on the back of his neck and lead him to lay down.

When he did, his head was resting on soft warmth, he could hear a steady rhythm in the vicinity of where his ear was pressed.

It was the smell of her body that seduced him into calm and comfort, but it was the feel of her hand stroking the nape of his neck and down his back that caused him to bring his arm around her middle and give in completely.


End file.
